


Unashamed

by The_Asset6



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, post-s10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27462946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Asset6/pseuds/The_Asset6
Summary: The first time it happens after they get married, for the first time that Ian can remember...It doesn’t feel like the end of the world.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 24
Kudos: 302





	Unashamed

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! Thanks to a conversation with the ever inspiring [gallavictorious](https://gallavictorious.tumblr.com/) / [RageSeptember](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageSeptember/pseuds/RageSeptember) (go bask in her brilliant writing—go!), I couldn’t get this out of my head. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

It happened on a Friday. Because of _course_ , it happened on a Friday.

The worst part was that it wasn’t even a big deal. If it were, Ian could more easily cope with this shit by not having to cope with it at all. Lying in bed, staring at the wall, too exhausted to fight back tears yet unsure of why he was crying? There was a lot to be said for those episodes. They fucking sucked, no doubt about it, but at least he could _feel_. At least there was something _there_ , even if he couldn’t identify what it was or make sense of how it had snuck up on him. Or beat him over the head with a two-by-four that had a rusted nail hammered through the unfriendly side. One or the other.

This was slower, more insidious—ever present yet far enough out of reach that Ian would have wondered if he was imagining it if his shrink hadn’t walked him through the warning signs for hours on end.

And they were there. They were definitely there.

Of the many facets comprising his diagnosis, with which Ian had reluctantly grown familiar, the realization that his meds made all the difference had to be the hardest to swallow. The multiple orange prescription pill bottles on their nightstand were a blessing, not the curse he’d once believed them to be; trips to the pharmacy to get them refilled, cause for a sigh of relief. There were moments where he bitterly ruminated on what his seventeen-year-old self would have said had anybody told him that it would be okay or that he’d eventually be grateful for the chemicals that let him be himself again. Perhaps he already knew: the response wouldn’t sound too far from how he felt about needing them to begin with.

And he _did_. Need them. A lot. There was no point denying it when all of his background checks from now until the day he died would have _felon_ stamped across the top to ward off anyone who otherwise would have taken a risk on him in spite of his mental illness.

The pills saved his life. Literally. They took the major crazy away.

The pills, unfortunately, left the minor crazy behind.

Ian was in for the subtle shit this time. Recognition hadn’t struck him so much as prodded at the back of his mind, tickling the edges of his consciousness on Monday while Carl was regaling them with a dinnertime tale of how he’d chased down some girl who’d apparently decided that holding a cab driver hostage was the easiest way to get out of paying her fare. It was a good story. Funny. Interesting. It made Debbie roll her eyes and Mickey scornfully outline what she _should_ have done. Carl emerged victorious from the ordeal with a couple of scratches from her acrylic nails and a pat on the back from his superiors. Ian was proud of him.

Or he should have been.

Instead, he hadn’t felt… Well, he hadn’t felt.

That night, he couldn’t sleep, which was no surprise when his brain kept replaying the story in his head as though the timing would make a difference. (It didn’t.) He was simply drained of anything to mold into a beating replica of the organ in his chest that might give a shit when he couldn’t. His meds kept him from falling down that rabbit hole where all he knew was hating himself for not being _better_ , not getting _past_ this even if he was well aware that it wasn’t going away— _ever_.

But they couldn’t make him feel. That was just a waiting game.

Ian had rolled onto his side and watched Mickey sleep, his wedding ring reflecting the barest hint of moonlight filtering in through the window. Sleep must have overtaken him eventually, because he closed his eyes and opened them to discover that Mickey had already left for work. And left a couple of Pop Tarts on a plate beside him so that he wouldn’t take his meds on an empty stomach, because he wasn’t a fucking idiot and could probably see what was happening just like Ian.

The next couple of days were a blur. Ian trudged around the house on Wednesday, giving up on a grocery list halfway through and taking care of Franny while Debbie was out doing who the fuck knew what with Sandy. That evening found him in bed earlier than usual purely so that he wouldn’t have to slog through every conversation at half speed, the struggle to keep up with what everybody else was talking about too much and too little all at once.

Thursday, he ran out of the house as quickly as he could manage after forgetting what day it was and that he had to work. Nobody gave him shit for hardly getting anything done, and his boss told him they were overstaffed to the point where he could leave around lunchtime. It was bullshit—Ian could plainly see that his coworkers were run ragged picking up his slack—but he didn’t argue. He’d learned not to, and besides, Mickey would have had his ass if he knew that Ian had been given the out and not taken advantage of it. It was already a nigh insurmountable challenge to listen to him bitch about running into his dad at the Alibi when he’d stopped by for a drink on his way home, so the last thing Ian needed was for his ire to shift targets.

And then it was Friday. Ian was off, as he verified four times to be safe. Mickey wasn’t, which meant he didn’t find out that Ian mostly spent the day lounging around in bed with a few trips downstairs for food. That wasn’t to say that he was _hungry_ , but he had nothing better to do until his husband got home, so whatever.

Ian tried to pull himself together. He really, _really_ tried.

It was _Friday_. The week was over, and the way he felt, all he wanted to do was wait out his stupid brain in bed with Mickey. The meds could do all the legwork that he didn’t have the energy for.

Only that wasn’t exactly what Mickey had in mind.

He started with kissing because that was what they did. Or it was what they did _now_. They didn’t when they were kids, but shit was different then. Older and married, they could afford to go slow, and Ian was infinitely grateful for it. Anything faster than a snail’s pace would have left him in the dust right about now.

Needless to say, he was fucking _exhausted_ by the time Mickey started angling for the next step. Why wouldn’t he? The house was empty, so this was the perfect opportunity to make a little more noise than usual, not that it ever really bothered them or anyone else a whole lot. That shit was normal around here.

What _wasn’t_ normal…

“Hey, you okay?”

Blinking, Ian realized that Mickey’s lips weren’t attached to his anymore, and his eyes were focused on something decidedly southwards. Actually, the _lack_ thereof.

His mouth went dry, and while he _logically_ knew that Mickey wouldn’t care, there was an anvil hovering above his head regardless. This hadn’t happened since they got married. It hadn’t really happened after they were released from prison either, and his meds couldn’t stop him from cringing at the memory of a much younger Mickey attempting to get a rise out of him while his first set of pills thwarted them both.

Because even worse than feeling like shit was feeling nothing at all.

The anvil swayed dangerously, prepared to drop as his voice pierced the insubstantial thread tying it to the ceiling.

“Sorry,” he muttered with an awkward shrug, looking at anything but Mickey’s face where he was still settled between Ian’s knees. “I’m just not…”

Not okay.

Not normal.

Not worth it.

Not what his husband deserved to marry.

Ian wouldn’t say it aloud, not when it would do nothing but piss Mickey off, but Mickey must have heard him anyway. He always did.

“’S cool, man,” he replied dismissively. In a swirl of color and motion that Ian knew couldn’t be as fast as he perceived, Mickey’s T-shirt reappeared and he collapsed beside him on the bed like it didn’t matter that his husband couldn’t get it up for no reason. Like it was okay that Ian _wasn’t_ okay.

Like he loved him anyway.

The meds didn’t usually let him sink below the surface, but they had no impact on the moisture that made Mickey a hazy outline. And Ian wanted to ask—he _needed_ to ask, because sickness and health and all that shit and he was _sick_ and falling apart and…

“Could…” Clearing his throat, Ian took a deep breath and tried again, “Could we just…”

He didn’t have to finish. He didn’t have to drive the knife deeper into his own stomach and twist.

Mickey took it out of his hands, jerking his head to the side and grunting, “Get your ass over here, Gallagher.”

The meds were a lifeboat.

Mickey’s arms held the pieces of him together until Ian could get back into it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> For more on Shameless, my writing, and assorted fandom madness, I'm on [Tumblr](https://pathoftheranger.tumblr.com/)!


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